


A Long Way Down To Go

by samtheboyking



Category: Being Human (US/Canada)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-21 07:42:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2460326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samtheboyking/pseuds/samtheboyking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slipping is inevitable, no matter how pure of a life Aidan strives to lead- and there is only one who will be there to clean up the mess when Aidan hits bottom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Oh, _Aidan_.”

He’d know that voice anywhere; soft and sighing and with a somewhat condescending edge, or so he imagines. For the first few blinks Aidan’s eyesight is merely a hazy barrage of too-bright streetlights, the stars overhead, and at the center of it all, the sad, pitying face of his Maker (isn’t that what it always circles back to?). He’s sincerely hoping that Bishop’s face looming over him is merely a side effect accompanying the sick rolling in his gut, some new mechanism of torture his mind has conjured up as punishment for his latest transgression.

Aidan groans, rolls onto his side, and tries to dry heave the last remnants of blood from his mouth.

“Now, now,” Bishop _tsks_ , a steadying hand landing on Aidan’s shoulder. The touch is far too tangible and confirming of his worst fears; he is indeed lying in a gutter, and Bishop is, in fact, standing over him, in the flesh. The twitching corner of his Maker’s mouth might be leading to a grin. “You treated yourself tonight.”

“What are you doing here?” Aidan ends up coughing, licking over his lips and wetting the dried blood there. His hand feels wobbly as he plants it on the ground, makes his first attempt at sitting all the way up.

Bishop is sliding a hand up to his bicep for support. “What are _you_ doing? Do you know where you are, what you did tonight? Isn’t it past your curfew?” The smile is definitely there now, patronizing and annoying as ever. What Aidan also notices though as he manages the best glare he can muster, is the uniform, and then behind where Bishop is crouching next to him, the patrol car, pulled over at the curb and idling. Everything he must have consumed tonight is threatening to travel back up his throat.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Aidan tells him, shrugging off Bishop’s grip as he stands, head rushing in an alarming moment where he thinks he may have needed the extra support after all. He holds though, keeps his feet below himself, clears his throat, and starts heading down the sidewalk, direction based on the criteria that it’s _away_ from Bishop.

It is pathetically easy for his Maker to tug him back by a shoulder.

“Ah-ah, Aidan, you think you’re just going to stroll right back into your cozy little house you have there with your friends, blood down your chin and no shoes?”

Aidan has to look down. His shoes _are_ missing.

Bishop’s voice lowers, arm slung around Aidan’s shoulder the illusion of amiable. “You think your friends are just going to accept that explanation- _you’re fine?_ You slipped, Aidan. They don’t have the tolerance for your true nature, not like I do.”

Aidan’s breath shudders in his chest as he draws in air. Bishop isn’t wrong, truth hanging on every damnable word, and Aidan can’t help hating him for it. He doesn’t deserve to win.

His Maker’s breath is puffing warm at his ear, voice so smooth, Bishop’s natural ability to allure without even compelling shining through. A thumb strokes over Aidan’s shoulder. “They will never accept what you are. Who you are.” That finger lifts, traces the red stain across Aidan’s cheek, gentle. He wants to flinch away, turn out of the warm embrace Bishop has caught him in, but his Maker is still speaking, nose nearly pressed to Aidan’s temple. The older vampire murmurs, “How much did you have to drink, hmm? How many people do you think you had to drain to black out on the side of the road?”

Aidan’s not sure when his feet began moving again, matching Bishop’s pace, led by the arm keeping him captive and at the same time reassuring him that it’s okay, he doesn’t have to resist. He’ll be taken care of, as he’s always been.

“You’ve gotten careless, Aidan,” is Bishop’s blunt reprimand. “When you start forgetting where you’ve left bodies do you think Josh is the one you can run to, Sally?”

They come to a stop at the passenger door of Bishop’s patrol car, Aidan’s feet at the edge of the curb. He looks off to the side, avoids that knowing gaze awhile longer, the face of victory Bishop will wear when he knows he’s succeeded; made his point well enough for Aidan to relent, a look that comes so easy to his Maker, as if Bishop always expects Aidan to give in eventually.

But he can’t go back. Whether Bishop is the one telling him or not, he _can’t_. Can’t bring this into the house, not after he’s tried so hard to keep his image clean. Bishop’s words are ringing in his head and the taste of stale blood is lingering on his tongue, damning him. He watches the cars pass by on the road, streams of headlights passing them by without consideration.

Bishop heaves a sigh, both hands holding him at the shoulders now. “They’re never going to accept what you are, Aidan. _Who_ you are.”

“I’m not the same,” Aidan mumbles, voice still sticking in some spots. He’ll never be the same as he was at the start, with Bishop. He’s changed, and he’s going to see to it that he doesn’t go back.

“Of course you aren’t.”

Aidan finally has to look up, only met by his Maker’s fond, knowing look. Bishop’s features soften and Aidan has half a mind to bare his fangs right here and now for how infuriating Bishop’s acceptance is. Nothing about this should be easy, Aidan’s eyes narrowing and not deterring the other vampire in the slightest.

Bishop’s hand slides down his arm, and then the passenger door is being opened. “Get in, Aidan.”

There’s only a moment’s hesitation—not enough—before Aidan obeys, head ducking as he climbs in. He won’t ask where Bishop is taking him. Doesn’t matter.

Bishop’s face is there once more, hovering next to his own as he looks up from his seat. “You know I’m going to take care of you.” It’s only part of what Bishop means to say, but Aidan understands the rest of the implication. He can’t rely on anyone else, not when he finds himself here. No one but Bishop.

“I know,” Aidan responds, voice tight. The scowl he levels on Bishop’s face only lasts long enough for Aidan to reach out and slam the door shut.

Bishop chuckles and pats the top of the car. “That’s my boy.”


	2. Chapter 2

Aidan hadn’t been expecting the second story apartment when Bishop finally put the car in park and killed the ignition. What he _had_ been expecting was Sapp  & Sons, the funeral home more often their place of convening than anywhere else, though he hadn’t been paying attention to where Bishop was driving, either. He’d eventually just let his head drop back into the seat and let his eyelids fall down, blocking out the rows of houses passing by outside.

It’s not as if he’s never been to Bishop’s place of residence before (or rather, the address he’d taken up using in order to appear a legitimate citizen), but it’s been years since Aidan has been on this personal of visiting terms, and it seems nothing but a tactical move by the older vampire to bring him here of all places, of all times. It’s only grudgingly that Aidan gets out of the car at all.

To his credit, Bishop lends Aidan the privacy of the bathroom; for a whole fifteen minutes. It’s at that point that his Maker deems it necessary to make his presence known once more, at the most convenient of times when Aidan is soaking in the tub, water now tinted the lightest shades of pink and the soiled washcloth heaped in the little corner shelf. Aidan’s contemplating between a late escape route and wanting to sink below the lukewarm surface of the bathwater (for all the good it would do him) when the door creaks open.

At the interruption he slides up the back of the tub from where his nose had been ready to submerge, though he isn’t the least bit surprised at Bishop’s form leaning casually against the frame of the door, hands in pockets. He’s changed out of his police uniform, though he looks no less strange to Aidan in the plain grey t-shirt and pair of sweatpants he’s swapped up for.

“I see you found the vanilla.”

Aidan’s knee punches out a space in the water’s surface, sweet smelling now after the lathering of body wash. “You said to make myself at home.” Hell, Bishop was the one who owned the scent in the first place, and it was nice to have something other than the smell of stale blood of an unnamed victim to fill the air.

Bishop is soft spoken, but his voice seems to fill every inch of the small bathroom, “It doesn’t look to be a particularly hard task for you.” One side of his Maker’s mouth curls.

Intended or not—it is always intentional, isn’t it?—the words make Aidan’s blood begin to simmer. Ever eager to take each gesture as a slight he rolls his eyes. “Did I really have a choice?”

“Is that not what you have continually tried to convince me of over the years?”

Aidan turns his face away, back to staring straight ahead at the faucet. He’s tired of this game, a vicious cycle. “You have never—will never—just leave me alone, you always have to—”

“ _Don’t_ be ungrateful.” The cutting edge to Bishop’s tone has Aidan’s eyes snapping back towards the other vampire. Bishop is no longer leaning, though he advances slowly, bare feet silent against the tile. He comes to a halt at the side of the tub, hovering there and forcing Aidan to tip his head to keep him in view. “You made the choice, Aidan.”

Bishop’s gaze keeps him pinned, locked in position. During his first lifetime Aidan may have shied away from such intent speculation while in this vulnerable of a state, but there’s no room for shame or modesty once you’ve spent decades learning to exist with and around someone else. There’s a second or two in which Aidan thinks Bishop might back off first, but he never does- Aidan releases the tension in his muscles, sighs, and sinks back down into the water. He could blame Bishop for a lot, but slipping…this was his own fault. Sticking his foot back through the door of Bishop’s life happens to be his own fault now, too.

“Aidan,” Bishop sighs, and he’s crouching, arm coming to rest on the ledge of the bath. Aidan can’t heed that tone, he _won’t_ , but Bishop regards him with the sort of patience only a father can have for their child. “Do you really think this is the best way to continue?”

Something within Aidan snaps. “Oh and you’d have me what, just come crawling back to you?” He laughs, humorless. “So I can spend _every_ night not knowing which way is up and which is down, forget how many bodies I may have left lying around?” His upper lip has curled slightly, Aidan running his tongue over the edges of his teeth. At another time his tone may have earned him a beating, and he wonders why one isn’t warranted now as his Maker only continues to watch him.

Bishop takes the outburst in stride, leans a cheek against his fist and narrows his eyes in interest. “Is that what you think I want?”

“I think you want to cut me off from any reminder that I can be better than that. I think you want to make damn sure there’s no way I can get out from under you again.” Aidan sits up, leans in closer until he can count out the tiny wrinkles at the corners of Bishop’s eyes, the only ones he’ll ever have. “Or was there another reason you picked me up?” he challenges, with no shortage of sarcasm.

Bishop only hums, seems to be unaffected by the point Aidan is trying to make, and likewise the narrowing of his eyes. “Hmm, I see, you don’t need me- that’s why you’re here right now. A compelling argument Aidan, but that never was your strong point, was it? Have you convinced yourself, yet?”

The hand that settles on Aidan’s shoulder generates an immediate reaction, water sloshing as he twists away, as much as he can while being confined to a bathtub with Bishop in his face. His mind is turning over for a possible retort, anything to wipe out that smug expression, something to throw back at Bishop’s face, but Aidan only manages to register a speechless anger, and Bishop seizes the opening.

“I’m here to help you, Aidan.” Despite Aidan’s efforts to pull himself back Bishop is only getting closer, hand curling around his bicep, thumb rubbing in aggravating, soothing circles. “Are you ready to accept my help?” _Ready to come back._

“Bishop—” There’s the start of defeat threatening to break through his voice.

His Maker’s hand slides upward, follows the line of Aidan’s neck and presses into his skin until Bishop is cupping beneath the side of his jaw and fanning fingers at his cheek. There’s fondness in his touch, too much damn caring that has led him on in the past and Aidan is forced to confront it, eyes meeting those of the vampire he’s tried so hard to escape— futile.

Aidan wonders how long Bishop has known.

Bishop’s finger strokes along his cheekbone, travels down and toys at the corner of his mouth. Aidan’s drawn into the touch, knees pressing into the side of the tub, and it hasn’t occurred to him yet that the water has gone past lukewarm into cold, or that, aside from irritation, it hasn’t felt _strange_ to be stripped and sitting in Bishop’s bathtub with his Maker seated next to him.

He has been starving for a long time.

“You were always my boy,” Bishop tells him. The hand at his jaw is pulling him in, or maybe he merely lets himself follow, right into Bishop’s space until there’s nowhere left to go but inward, mouth against his Maker’s in a startling remembrance of how easy and pleasurable it is to fall.

Aidan’s hands raise from the water to grip against the ledge of the tub. Bishop’s hold on him is solid, directing, the same way in which the older vampire’s mouth slides over his, but there isn’t time for Aidan to swipe his tongue out and truly taste before Bishop is separating them.

“What are you doing?” he asks, patience waning now that finality has set in. It’s a hard fought idea to recognize his urge to both eradicate Bishop’s presence in his life and cling to it.

There’s no reply given, but Bishop smiles at him, reassuring, and then stands and lifts his t-shirt up and over his head by the hem. His fingers are easing the sweatpants down when he says, “Refill that with warm water and move over.” His brows raise expectantly when Aidan does nothing but continue to stare, at a loss for anything else. “ _Aidan_.”

And for one of the few times in his long life, Aidan does what Bishop tells him and shifts forward to make room for when Bishop climbs in behind. Aidan lets himself settle back, sink into the waiting embrace of his Maker, and succumb to the idea that ending up here is inevitable.

Bishop’s hand curls over his hip, the other resting on the top of his thigh. “Glad to have you back, Aidan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There might be one more chapter to this little writing experiment of 'getting back into the swing of things.' Thanks for reading :)


	3. Chapter 3

He isn’t _back._

That’s what Aidan tells himself now every time he winds up at Bishop’s apartment, in Bishop’s bed, wrapped up in his Maker— like this time, as he lies on his side with Bishop lined up against his back, hands running over him teasing and light.

Clothing was discarded long ago, as had become part of their unspoken routine; Aidan arriving at Bishop’s—always making sure he is well hydrated beforehand—and his Maker welcoming him inside where they will almost always proceed to the bath first, an hour long process of sitting together in steaming hot water. Sometimes they just lounge there, Aidan framed between Bishop’s thighs with his head resting back against his Maker’s shoulder. Other times, he’ll hook his leg around Bishop’s ankle, tease his mouth over Bishop’s jaw until his Maker relents and gives him what he wants— a firm hand wrapped around his cock, stroking lazily but rhythm lost somewhat by the uneven thrust of Aidan’s hips, until he’s coming across his belly with a gasp only to have Bishop’s hand sluice water over his skin to wash him clean again.

There could be talking after toweling off, idle pleasantries that Aidan is surprised Bishop still bothers with— or maybe his Maker is more starved for companionship than he thought. But it is always here that they end up— the bedroom.

Bishop’s room is surprisingly vacant of personality, even for Aidan’s lack of expectations. What furniture he does have is nondescript and cleared of any personal items, save for one pocket watch atop the dresser (an item Aidan hadn’t seen even when they _had_ actuallybeen living in the 1800’s) and a velvet ring box that Aidan does remember, all too clearly. But other than these two tokens of past lives, there is nothing interesting about Bishop’s room. Well, aside from Bishop himself.

“You’ve missed me, haven’t you?” A finger traces gently at the soft skin behind his balls, but all Aidan rewards Bishop with is a noncommittal noise as he tries to shove his face down into the pillow. Give Bishop an inch and he’ll try to keep you around for an eternity.

A hand behind one of his thighs pushes, guides his leg further up towards his chest, bent at the knee and more exposed to where Aidan can feel his Maker’s eyes on him. Fingers ghost up and down his spine, bumping along each vertebra, with such attention it’s as if Bishop may have forgotten what this felt like.

“No matter what, you will always come back to me, isn’t that right Aidan?”

“I am _not_ back,” Aidan asserts, to himself just as much to Bishop. He takes no part in Bishop’s operations of running Boston, doesn’t pay visits to the blood dens, doesn’t set a _foot_ inside of Sapp  & Sons anymore— and he isn’t drinking live, no matter how often Bishop will try to persuade him to reconsider his less than ‘effective’ diet, as his Maker puts it. But paying the occasional visit to Bishop’s place, where he will _occasionally_ be coaxed into sinking fangs into one of his Maker’s own veins while they fuck, does not count as being ‘back’ in his book.

There’s a warm puff of breath on the back of Aidan’s neck and he can hear Bishop shifting against the sheets, a leg bumping into his own from behind. Clever fingers stroke past the small of his back, ease between his cheeks, and it’s such a slow, dragging process that it has Aidan, against his better judgment, pressing back for more, spreading his legs just a fraction wider and resisting the urge to make a sound of want.

Sometimes, it isn’t like this at all. Sometimes, Aidan will demand, push for more than he thinks Bishop is willing to give, try and take what he wants by sheer force just to spite him. Sometimes he will be the one to decide the pace, always rough and frantic, shoving Bishop down into the mattress and grabbing him by the hips hard enough to bruise, all to prove a point. Sometimes he’ll fuck Bishop raw, leave a trail of biting marks and dripping blood on his skin, anything he can do to demonstrate control, to leave Bishop just as much of mess as Bishop left him.

But either way it is always exactly what Bishop wants, no matter what Aidan does or how hard he tries to subvert him. The breathless, punched out laughs of Bishop beneath him cannot be snuffed out no matter how hard Aidan fucks or how hard he bites, no matter what harmful accusations he comes up with, and in the end it is Bishop, sore and bloodied, to pull him back in—panting, sweaty, agitated—and stroke along his back until Aidan’s forgotten he’s supposed to be angry with him.

Today though, he is content to comply with Bishop’s maddeningly slow, lagging pace. For the most part.

“Bishop _come on_.”

“After all this time haven’t you learned patience by now?” Bishop tsks, mock scolding. “Don’t you remember how good you used to be for me?”

Aidan has to snort, mouth curving up of its own accord. They both know that isn’t true. Bishop has never held back from reminding Aidan that patience is a virtue, as he’s apt to forget. He can’t say that it’s entirely accidental, though. Testing his Maker’s limits has always been a source of satisfaction— some odd sense of victory when he finally does get Bishop to snap.

“Be good for me.” A warm, dry finger rubs over his hole and Aidan is biting his lip before he can stop himself. Bishop’s voice at his ear is soft, honey-smooth and tempting enough for Aidan to arch his back just the slightest at the praise. “My best boy.”

And after all this time, after so many years of defining his independence from Bishop, it is stupidly, irrationally easy to succumb to such a simple title. Aidan rolls fully onto his stomach, legs splayed wide, hands gathered beneath the pillow as he twists his neck around, enough to glimpse Bishop still hovering next to him.

“ _Good_ ,” his Maker reiterates, and there’s something twisting Aidan’s stomach into knots at the thought that there is actually truth in the word. He hasn’t been good for anyone in a long time— except Bishop. Good for Bishop, even when he really _isn’t_. 

Aidan loses sight of Bishop as the older vampire settles behind him, gathered between Aidan’s thighs. It shouldn’t be as unnerving as it is, not being able to see him, even more so when Bishop seems to be stalling, not a touch to Aidan’s skin at first to indicate where his gaze might be concentrated. The only thing Aidan has to fill his line of sight is the pillow and the headboard, growing tenser as he waits for Bishop to make a move.  

It comes in the form of fingers— a palm cupping over his cheek and spreading him apart, and two fingers back to teasing across his hole, slick now. Aidan hadn’t even heard Bishop suck them into his mouth. 

“Gorgeous,” Bishop murmurs, and even with Aidan face-down there is no room for him to hide, to shrink away from all of the terms Bishop is so fond of attaching to him. Those two fingers circle around his rim, get him wet, and Aidan can just imagine how intently his Maker is watching him— edging too close towards the intimacy they had once fallen into.

To counter the slow spreading warmth through him Aidan huffs, impatience plenty transparent as he lifts his hips a little, stretches out his back and lets his spine dip down. “Did you forget what to do back there?”

The quip earns him the sudden press of fingers pushing their way into him, a steady pressure until Aidan’s hole has to open up, let Bishop in. It leaves Aidan’s breath shaking in his chest, a short groan as he feels his rim stretch too wide too soon for Bishop’s fingers to ease in all the way. The palm holding Aidan’s ass open grips harder, thumb rubbing suddenly where his rim is pulled taut, and Aidan wasn’t actually expecting Bishop to let him have this— the disruption to his careful, unhurried pace.  

That’s all the encouragement Aidan needs to brace his knees wide on the mattress and try to push back for more, where Bishop is already buried as far as he can go. There’s nothing stopping Aidan as he tugs forward, hole clenching as Bishop’s fingers drag out of him and then again when he rolls his hips back, starts fucking himself onto Bishop’s fingers without any help from his Maker.

Aidan only hears the short pants of his own breath as he works his hips back in hard, quick thrusts, eyes falling shut. He’d already been half hard with all the previous attention—Bishop’s hands on him warm and persistent—but now his cock is filling out, pleasure shooting down to his core each time he pulls off and fucks back again. The hand cupped over his cheek keeping him parted and bared for Bishop to watch only follows his lead, doesn’t direct, doesn’t attempt to still the rapidly building frantic pace that Aidan is setting for himself. It’s good, so good that Aidan momentarily forgets that nothing ever happens that Bishop doesn’t explicitly _want_ to happen, good enough for Aidan to lose himself for a moment in working his hole open on thick fingers, the feel of his rim pulling over Bishop’s knuckles already getting him sore—   

“Easy, Aidan.”

It’s a warning, one that he refuses to heed— fuck that. He shoves his hips back harder, stifles a moan into the pillowcase. He thinks Bishop might sigh, is probably wearing that small, disappointed frown of his if Aidan were to look over his shoulder and check, but he doesn’t care so long as he’s still allowed to keep moving back onto Bishop’s fingers, the friction and stretch good enough to build up a low, sweet ache.

“I said _easy_.”

And a hand, firm and forceful, is suddenly cupping around his balls, tugging down hard enough that Bishop’s command reaches his ears this time, has Aidan’s hips stuttering to a stop with a sharp gasp. Aidan squirms against the pressure.

“That’s better,” Bishop tells him, Aidan’s movement reduced to a flinch, a useless attempt to pull away from the hand squeezing down onto him.

“Bishop—”

Another harsh tug, and it has Aidan sucking in air, tongue going between his teeth. His thighs are starting to shake, legs trying to keep his ass up and chest low so that he’s not pulling even more against Bishop’s hand which has him frozen in place.

“Always in such a rush.” Bishop’s voice is calm as ever, could be mistaken for soothing. “I will never be able to enjoy you if you insist on challenging me every step of the way, is that?”

Aidan’s shaking his head despite the fact that Bishop has him pinpointed, always has. But the tight grip over his balls releases, Aidan sighing, balls throbbing, and dick still hard. He does turn his head now, tries to look over his shoulder for his Maker—maybe try his hand at some false, sarcastic apology—but Bishop’s fingers are quick to direct his cheek away.

“Ah, face forward.” Fingers drag from his cheek around to his neck, rub in little circular motions at the base. “See, that’s not so hard, is it?” Aidan can hear the smile in his Maker’s voice, the damn pleased tone at Aidan’s compliance which he’s managed to wrangle once more.

He tries to relax, release the tension from his muscles despite not being able to see Bishop’s next move coming, despite being truly the one at Bishop’s mercy now, illusion of his own control diminished. Aidan sets his cheek to the pillow, repositions his legs a little as he holds his position, keeps listening for any clue to let him know what Bishop is doing.

He’s not prepared for his Maker’s tongue licking a firm, long line up from his balls all the way to his hole, wet and rough and so sudden that the jerk of his hips isn’t intentional at all, leaves Aidan stifling a sound that’s too embarrassing and too telling of just how easy it is for Bishop to get to him.

Another lick, again and again, sometimes slow and dragging and sometimes rapid flicks of Bishop’s tongue, and he has to be enjoying the way Aidan’s thighs have begun to quiver, the way his breaths are now coming out harsh against the pillow, because he can _feel_ the bastard chuckle, the noise vibrating into his skin and through his tongue when he slowly presses past Aidan’s rim.

“Shit, _shit_ —” Aidan breathes. His cock twitches, hard and curving up against his belly, and he can feel the warmth pooling in his slit, slick and rolling down the head. He rocks his hips back slightly, just testing, receives a low hum where Bishop’s mouth is pressing deep into his skin.

Bishop is relentless, pushing the end of his tongue past Aidan’s rim, curling and hooking and licking him from the inside out until Aidan has to burying himself face first into the pillow again, hands wedging between the headboard and gripping hard at the edge of the mattress. He can hardly breathe like this but it’s better than coming up for air, better than releasing the whimpers that want to escape as Bishop eats him out, works his hole open again and again.

By the time Bishop is withdrawing his tongue and leaving Aidan a strung out, shaking mess, the younger vampire’s cock is dripping pre-come, aching without any of the friction to relieve the steady throb of pleasure. “Why did you stop?” comes out a muffled mumble into the pillow, Aidan refusing to draw his face back up just yet. Without Bishop’s mouth sealed over him, without his tongue prodding into his hole, he feels cold, air cooling over spit-slicked, abandoned skin. “Bishop— oh _fuck_ —” A hand grips over Aidan’s hip, fingers curling hard into his skin, keeping him perfectly in place for when Bishop’s cockhead rubs along his crease, presses over his hole.

“Beautiful.” Bishop sounds reverent, worshipful, and Aidan’s face heats up at the thought of Bishop watching him as he teases the tip of his cock at his pucker, smearing slick around his rim. He’s glad his Maker can’t see his face now, can’t glean the effect of his words.     

The only thing Aidan has left to do is to shift backward, push harder against the blunt tip of Bishop’s cock until Bishop’s hand is squeezing down at his hip, bruising pressure reminding Aidan of who he is supposed to belong to.

Aidan’s eyes slip shut, mouth opening to a groan as Bishop finally eases forward, splits him wide and stretches him open like he needs to be, something he will never admit to out loud. There’s no need to.

“This is where you want to be,” Bishop tells him, voice sounding so close to his ear, breath puffing warm against his neck. Bishop pushes forward in one smooth motion, until he’s pressing flush to the back of Aidan’s ass. “This is where you _need_ to be, isn’t it?” A hand gently coaxes his face around, so that he’s staring off to the side, though he keeps his eyes shut, too afraid he may actually give himself away now.

Bishop rocks into him, doesn’t move far, just tiny grinding motions that has Aidan too aware of how Bishop’s cock fills him up, hole clenching tight around the base every time Bishop moves to pull away just an inch. Fingers stroke delicately at his neck, in stark contrast to the hand still cupped at his hip and holding him like a vise.

“Please—” Aidan doesn’t register he’s said it before it’s too late to take it back. The next plea for more, for completion, falls short before his mouth can betray him again, comes out as a punched out noise when Bishop draws back and fucks in hard. The next groan filling the room isn’t his own, though Bishop is quieter, softer and somehow more composed sounding.

What had started out as a smooth, steady pace of Bishop rocking into him quickly falls apart though, slow, deep thrusts turning into sharp, fast pumps of Bishop’s hip and loud slaps of their skin coming together. Aidan can’t help the sounds now, doesn’t try to as his knees are shoved up a fraction each time Bishop thrusts, each time the sound of their balls smacking together and ringing out in a completely filthy display of lost control.

The hand that had been stroking at his neck has turned to grasping, fingers twined through the back of Aidan’s hair, keeping his head in place for Bishop to lean down close as he fucks him, mouth open and panting near Aidan’s jaw, a repetition of, “beautiful, perfect,” falling out from Bishop’s mouth.

Bishop’s voice is the only thing he can hear beyond the slapping of their skin together— telling him he’s good, his best creation, perfect like this, the words punctuated by each sharp thrust, each rough collision of Bishop’s hips into his ass. It has his hands curling harder into the sheets bunching up beneath their bodies as he takes it— the praise, the fucking; everything Bishop gives to him. Bishop smothers everything, Bishop is suffocating; he is the hidden force behind every fall he takes, and Bishop is the hand at his back, either to keep him on the ground or pull him up to salvation Aidan will never be fully sure of.

He wants to deny it, every word of praise Bishop insists on making him hear as his cock fucks into him, sends Aidan’s body into shaking and twitching at each pass over his prostate, hole clenching hard. He doesn’t want to whine, breathless, for Bishop to fuck him harder, doesn’t want Bishop to listen, his Maker’s hips coming together with his ass hard enough that he’s sure to have bruises, hard enough to have Aidan’s dick slapping up against his stomach with dirty wet sounds.

Aidan’s legs are slipping on the sheets, spread wide and only held up by Bishop’s hand, the grip reassuring, grounding as he begins to feel the warmth pooling low in his belly. He’s still gasping it out no matter how hard and fast Bishop fucks into him— _please_ —without knowing why, the word sounding distant to his own ears, strangled and desperate.

But Bishop is there, mouth sliding over Aidan’s jaw, up to his lips to slot them together. He kisses him with none of the franticness he fucks with; just heated, wet and slow, drawing Aidan’s tongue to his own, until Bishop is straying and prodding careful and deliberate against Aidan’s gums. Aidan shudders, but with Bishop holding him by the hair there’s no way for him to withdraw, all of Bishop shoving forward and leaving Aidan with nowhere to go.

For all of his careful touching earlier Bishop doesn’t seem to have forgotten a thing, that tongue working near the line of Aidan’s gum and knowing all too well where to press— how simple it is for his Maker to take him apart, so perfectly, agonizingly slow, piece by piece. How Bishop knows exactly where to flick his tongue out to have him panting, squirming under his hold.

It isn’t fair that Bishop can still pull this response from him, can play his body in the perfect sequence to have him dissolving, shaking apart. In moments like this it is exactly what Aidan craves. He lets his mouth fall open, at the mercy of Bishop’s tongue which sets to pressing and prodding into his gums, until sharp points are being coaxed down, sliding out from hiding and extending for the next long swipe of Bishop’s tongue into his mouth.

Aidan shudders, whimper at the back of his throat leaking beyond his restraint and swallowed up by his Maker, Bishop greedy for everything his boy has to offer. He’s helpless against the assault, a rough tongue lapping over his fangs, curling under the points recklessly, mouth sucking over Aidan’s own. It’s going to be too much, the combination of Bishop’s dick pounding into him and dragging back out, Bishop’s mouth working at his fangs.

“Bishop, Bishop—” Aidan’s hips jerk, mouth falling open to gasp, air stolen by Bishop’s mouth covering his, noise swallowed, consumed. A sharp burst of blood fills his mouth and Aidan’s not coherent enough to recognize who it belongs to, just swallows the taste down, warm in his throat.

Bishop might say something, muttered into Aidan’s mouth and indiscernible, drowned out by moans and the slap of skin and the sudden, choked groan as Aidan’s cock jerks at Bishop’s next thrust. He comes with Bishop holding him through it, with his mouth filled with blood and Bishop’s tongue, comes with a soundless whine as Bishop continues to fuck him through it.

Without a hand to stroke along his shaft Aidan’s left to sporadically pump his hips, dick shooting in pulses, come streaking over his belly and dripping onto the bed below. He’s too sensitive, even as his cock keeps twitching and dribbling from his slit, to where it feels as though he can’t breathe, can’t do anything but let his limbs carry him down, until Bishop is the only thing left holding him up.

He stays like that; held up by the hips as Bishop continues to pound into him, thrusts having lost all rhythm. Let’s Bishop use him as he pleases, with only strained, broken sounds now as protest, over-sensitive to the point where pleasure edges on pain, where his dick continues to twitch despite starting to go soft. Stays like that until Bishop’s hips are stuttering, until Bishop is fully flattening him to the mattress as Aidan can feel his dick shoot, filling him up warm and wet, staying buried with his balls pressing up under Aidan’s ass. They are both panting, skin heated and sweat-slicked, two bodies tangled into each other, a mess of limbs.

Aidan’s eyes blink open, vision bleary in the few moments it takes for him to adjust. Bishop is sprawled across his back, draped over him warm and panting and heavy, cock still buried in Aidan’s hole, keeping him stretched and aching and _good_. His Maker’s mouth is so close, Bishop’s head resting limp against the mattress, and it’s not until he looks lower that Aidan realizes where the blood still staining his tongue had come from; Bishop’s lip, sliced and dripping, running down onto his chin and painting him in red, seeping down into what were, before they started, pristine white sheets, soaking into the fabric. Bishop either hasn’t registered where Aidan’s fangs had sunk in deep and cut open flesh, or he just doesn’t care.

Leaning forward into just the inch of space that keeps them separated, Aidan slots their mouths together again, frenzy died down into something slow again, something they both take the time to savor, Aidan sealing around Bishop’s lower lip to lap his tongue over where he broke skin, suck down the excess blood until the flow has ceased. Bishop hums into his mouth, doesn’t fight the way Aidan pushes against him.

The hand coming up to tangle in Aidan’s hair is a light touch now, easy to relax into, Bishop stroking through sweaty and mussed strands, combing his fingers towards the back of Aidan’s head, such a soft gesture, at odds with the rest of the destruction they’ve left behind. Aidan can’t stop himself from melting into it, doesn’t have the energy left in him to put up even token resistance, to pretend he doesn’t enjoy the quiet, devoted attention.

If there is anything he has learned though, it’s that this won’t last. Never will. He won’t _let_ it.

Aidan’s the one to break away, after the few moments he allows himself to be held and pet and admired with soft lingering touches; Bishop’s hand stroking up and down his back, Bishop’s mouth kissing his own, over to his cheek, his neck. It is always him to shatter the comfort of the fantasy they’ve let themselves build, him to bring himself back down to reality, before it’s too late, before Bishop has him trapped once more.

He shifts, Bishop’s mouth almost looking to chase after him, his Maker blinking open his eyes at the disruption, and Aidan almost regrets doing it— watching the recognition quickly wash over him, watching Bishop steel himself, like it actually hurts to watch Aidan go.

Aidan sighs, body sore, an ache that won’t last him long enough to last until the next time they meet. Bishop only leans back on an elbow and watches Aidan stand, eyes tracking him as he picks out his clothing from Bishop’s from the pile on the floor. Facing his Maker each time he leaves seems to be getting harder, but he looks back, makes himself.

“I should go.”

There’s only a hum, and the picture of Bishop looking at home in blood-wrecked sheets, naked and satisfied, is too inviting.

He could stay— drop the shirt he’s pulling over his head, climb back into a warm bed and curl up against a warmer body, relish the slow firm strokes of Bishop’s hands on him again. Bishop would let him rest, not speak a word of the blood drying on his face, would pull him into his chest and offer a wrist if he thought Aidan needed it.  

He could stay, and he won’t.

Bishop doesn’t even move as Aidan heads for the bedroom door, has never bothered to show him out when Aidan decides it’s time for him to leave, time to figure out some way to keep this part of himself beneath the surface as he heads back to reality.

Aidan stops halfway through the door, turns to look at Bishop one last time. His Maker has already rolled onto his back, is staring up at the ceiling with hands folded neatly atop his stomach.  

“I’ll be back Monday. After my shift.”

“Of course, Aidan.”   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this little project has come to an end. Thanks to everyone who read :) I'm sure I'll be writing more Aidan/Bishop in the future.

**Author's Note:**

> It has been a long, long time since I wrote anything for fandom (I'm way out of practice), and I ended up coming back with ideas for a fandom that's close to death, and a pairing that's even closer. But I'm stuck on this ship and there's no turning back now. It was meant to be a drabble but there could very well be a second installment. Thanks for reading and for any feedback :)  
> (Inspiration based solely on the time Aidan woke up in a gutter, shoe-less).


End file.
